


206

by whisperdlullaby



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M, Post-Split
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperdlullaby/pseuds/whisperdlullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this isn't the first time they've done this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	206

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted in 2010 on lj. co-written with my lovely friend under the lj name panic-smile.

Brendon’s at the bar, having a beer with Spencer and Shane when he gets a text from Ryan. _i’m here_ , is all it says, but it’s enough. He types back a quick, _ok_ , pockets his phone and chugs back his beer in a way he knows is not subtle.

When he gets up, mumbling an excuse that it’s been a long night and that he’s tired, Spencer eyes follow him, concern laced with something else, something deeper. Disappointment, maybe. Brendon’s never told him about it, about this _thing,_ this stupid fucking thing, but somehow, he knows anyway.

Brendon’s not drunk, buzzed maybe, but he almost feels that way as he speeds down the highway, radio blasted and fingers tapping against the steering wheel un-rhythmically, the nerves under his skin buzzing with something familiar.

He always feel a little seedy when he pulls up to the motel, like he’s a married man sneaking off from his wife to meet his mistress. It’s not like they couldn’t pick a nicer motel either, at least a place that changes their sheets every once and awhile and can afford a television set that didn’t come from the 1980’s. Then again, maybe it’s just another reminder that this isn’t a first-class honeymoon to Europe; that it never will be.

Brendon turns the ignition off but remains seated, back arched and faced pressed against the leather steering wheel. He breathes in through his nose, then out through his mouth, once, twice, ten times and considers turning right back around and driving home.

He doesn’t though. He never does, and he’s still wondering why not.

When Brendon enters through the front door, the regular balding man with the perfect, round orb that slips out from underneath his tight tank-top, is sitting behind the counter, legs propped up, watching a wrestling match from the black and white TV above. He doesn’t acknowledge him, he never does, and it leaves Brendon with a vague sense of relief, like maybe what he’s doing isn’t so entirely wrong.

Brendon’s barely got his fist on the door, paint chipping and the rusty numbers reading 206, before it’s opening up, revealing Ryan on the other side, pupils blown and hair wild. The corners of his mouth turn up just the slightest as he takes a step back, silently ushering Brendon inside.

This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. Not even close, but Brendon still feels the heavy beating in his ribcage and the nauseous feeling building in his stomach. He takes a stuttered breath, shutting the door behind him with a shallow click as Ryan begins on the buttons of his paisley shirt, strutting over to the bed.

Brendon stays where he is, watching the soft lines of his back as the shirt rolls off his shoulders, skin gaunt and pale under the dim, artificial light. It seems with every visit, no matter if it’s been a month or a week, Brendon thinks to himself how much skinnier Ryan has become. He thinks that one day, there won’t be anything left of him at all.

Ryan turns to look at him over his shoulder, spindly fingers working on the buttons of his jeans. His lips are parted, and Brendon thinks for a brief second that he might speak, but he raises a thin, inquisitive eyebrow instead.

Brendon’s fingers reach the hem of his t-shirt, and he tugs, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the ground. The cool, ventilated air hits his body, causing gooseflesh to sprout up across his exposed skin. He shivers, starting on his jeans just as Ryan steps out of his own.

He waits at the end of the bed for him to finish undressing, completely still and semi-hard curved against his thigh. Brendon checks for weak knees, a quickened pulse, but there’s nothing there, only a dull thrumming underneath his fingertips, blurred vision, and he wonders if this was something that was lost along with everything else or if it was gradual, something he missed along the way.

Brendon stops a foot away from him, clothes discarded in a pile by the door, and counts three cool breaths against his chin from Ryan before his fingers are pressing against his jaw and his chapped mouth brushes against his. It's been a long time since Brendon felt fireworks. He reminds himself of this every time he finds himself back here, inside the door marked 206. He'll ask himself the same old questions about why he bothers, why he comes to this seedy motel room, but yet, he knows he'll keep coming, regardless.  

He wonders what Ryan’s thinking, wonders if he knows why he’s here, why he’s doing this, or if he’s just as clueless, just as helpless, as Brendon feels.

Ryan tugs him back onto the bed, strong hand fitted along his bare hip, and Brendon goes with it, sliding down onto the mattress and resting between his legs. It’s all teeth and tongue, sharp angles and protruding bones, and the light flicking above them or the soft hum of the television next door reminds Brendon that this is all it will ever be.

Brendon can taste the bitterness pooling at the back of his tongue when Ryan pulls back to reach for the condoms. Brendon’s kissed Ryan enough times like this to know exactly what it is. Sometimes, if Brendon closes his eyes and thinks back hard enough, he can remember Ryan tasting like peppermint and skittles. If he thinks back hard enough, he can remember what it was like when Ryan smiled, eyes clear and vivid.

Ryan repositions himself between Brendon’s legs, slicking lube onto his fingers and hooking a thigh onto his boney hip. If Brendon closes his eyes tight enough, he’s back in his bunk, and this is Ryan. All Ryan, and nothing else. _This_ is the one who gave him the weak knees, the quickened pulse and a light, fluttery feeling inside his chest. The Ryan he’s searching for when he enters the dingy room marked 206, and the one that’s just as lost when he leaves.

Fingers slide into him, and Brendon’s used to the feeling now, his knobby knuckles and the slick feeling of Ryan’s mouth pressed to his hip. He remembers how exhilarating it once was, having Ryan’s attention focused on him and only him. He doesn’t feel special now, only desperate.

They don’t linger on foreplay for long, they never do anymore, and Brendon’s thighs strain a little when Ryan moves them up and pushes in. Brendon closes his eyes and bites back a groan. Memories of bunks and beds and tables and studios come to mind, of laughing and panting and touching, and Brendon feels cold all of a sudden.

The band splitting broke apart a lot of things; all of which were irreparable.

Ryan’s fingers dig in around Brendon’s knees, his nails bitten and short. Ryan’s hipbones are sharp and his thrusts are straight foreword and hard, although not unforgiving.

Brendon’s hands curl in the sheets, and he tries not to think of how dirty the bed is; how dirty they are, for being here. For sneaking around, lying, messing around in something they don’t even understand.

They kiss messily and unfocused and there’s a raw need in there, the need to get off, the need to feel what they’ve been missing. Something smells overwhelmingly like cigarette smoke, and he doesn’t know if it’s Ryan or the room.

Their movements become unpracticed and jumbled, hips jerking and hands pulling and Brendon can feel it from the tips of his toes as it builds and intensifies, until spilling over and crashing, yanking at Ryan’s too-long hair.

Ryan rolls off of him after a few moments, pulling out and leaving Brendon feeling raw and exposed; empty, almost. He tries to keep his eyes closed for awhile, breathing in the musky scent of the air. It makes him feel like he’s back on the bus, and any moment now Ryan’s going to reach out and pull him over, tucking him into his chest and kissing his eyelids.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s still staring at the ceiling, eyes clouded over, and Brendon’s knows that’s all it is. A distant memory. A fantasy.

Something hangs thick in the air, covering them like the quilts his grandmother used to make when he was a child. It feels all too familiar, like the time in South Africa and that night Keltie had walked into their lives, but it’s more, something deeper and thicker, and when Brendon turns to catch Ryan’s eye, he knows he feels it too.

It’s that horrible sense of finality, of realizing the delusion has come to an end. When he looks into Ryan’s eyes he doesn’t see what he used to see, and he realizes that people really do change. Everything that had held them together no longer exists, and they’re chasing after a memory instead of something tangible.

For the first time since they started these secret affairs, Brendon breaks the unspoken silence between them. “I can't keep searching for something that’s not there,” he whispers.

Something in Ryan’s expression shifts, fades, like the final moments before a candle burns out. For a halting moment, Brendon wishes he could take it back.

Slowly, his chest rises and then falls, and he says, voice so quiet it’s almost not even there, “I know.”

They dress silently, like the words between them hadn’t been spoken and they’re back to how they were before, too quiet and too tense.

Brendon is the first to step out into the dingy hallway, smiling sadly. “Bye, Ryan,” he murmurs, but he knows he’s already gone, staring at the light fixture behind Brendon’s head.

He closes the door, and doesn’t look at the 206 as he walks away.


End file.
